


when you’re all alone, i will reach for you

by jibberjabber599



Category: The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-01
Updated: 2017-12-01
Packaged: 2019-02-09 02:06:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,353
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12877896
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jibberjabber599/pseuds/jibberjabber599
Summary: Maybe it had been the night she’d told him she wanted an after for him. For me, she’d choked back that night. It’d been stuck in her throat, where she’d wanted it to stay, even after he’d kissed her cheek and walked away as she’d wiped the tears gathered under her eyes. I want an after for me, too. “Happy New Year,” she whispers, feeling a bit silly but not willing to pull away just yet.





	when you’re all alone, i will reach for you

**Author's Note:**

> idk what this is, it's just cheesy (maybe ooc) and quickly written because these two gave me a lot of feelings. forgive any and all errors.
> 
> title from apocalypse by cigarettes after sex

She waits a month before she can’t wait any longer.

 

She contacts Madani a month after she witnessed all that went down, horrified as she sat from her desk watching the news unravel on the television screen in front of her. She wants to visit her in person, but settles for typing out an email she’s not entirely sure won’t get deleted before it’s even read.

 

She senses that he’s still alive— _hopes_ —but she’d still like confirmation. Her last resort would be finding him on her own, but she can’t bring herself to consider the idea for too long.

 

(If she does, she might actually follow through during a weaker moment, when her impulse gets the best of her.)

 

Dinah’s reply is short, sweet and to the point. And not one word about Frank—the type of confirmation Karen had let herself hope for.

 

If he’d died, well, Karen doesn’t know Dinah Madani _that_ well, but she knows the woman well enough to figure if he had died or been severely injured, she’d not withhold that information. Not from her. Karen replies that she’s glad Dinah made it out alive, wishes her well, a smile on her lips as her finger taps the send button.

 

She supposes that will have to be good enough, for now.

 

Sure, it bothers her that he doesn’t come around—not to the bench by the water or her apartment, to let her see he’s okay.

 

And the loneliness creeps back in, even if she should be an expert at being alone. Karen is an expert at a lot. She likes to think so, at least. She’s good at plastering on a smile and playing whichever part she has to, when necessary. She’s good at keeping things close to her chest, knowing there were some things you didn’t reveal to just anyone.   

 

But not with Frank. He hasn’t heard any of the past she’s tried to forget or any of her confessions, yet she somehow feels like she’s stripped bare. Maybe because there’s no pretense that she’d have to swallow the truth down if she decided to share every bad act she’d ever committed.

 

He’d listen to her unburden _everything_ and accept her, because that’s what she had done for him.

 

Their game is a different sort, dancing around feelings that she only allows herself to dwell on some nights when she’s had a little too much to drink and supposed to be sleeping and feeling safe in her bed instead of tossing and turning restlessly.

 

She’s drawn to him, sure. He cares for her, she’s aware. She cares for him, too. But there was that split, charged second in the elevator that she’d shut her watery eyes and felt his breath intermingling with hers and—

 

The foolish part of her wishes that they’d lingered a few seconds longer instead of her urging him to escape, that she would have pressed her lips to his.

 

It hadn’t been the time, or place. Maybe there never would be, and well, that shouldn’t devastate her nearly as much as it does when she entertains the thought.

 

But there’s also a comfort in never crossing that line, keeping whatever they have between them—“ _A connection_ ,” Madani’s voice echoes in the back recesses of her mind—undefined. Maybe it’s because she’s not ready for that, and he maybe wouldn’t ever be. Maybe not with her. She’d never want to pressure him. If she’s completely honest with herself, putting a name to what they had would push her to search him out, find him, and be given a chance to be left again.

 

The prospect alone is frightening and terrifying, crossing that line, even if in quiet moments she longingly recalls lips brushing against her cheekbone and being told to hold onto it with both hands.

 

She’s afraid of having it ripped away no matter how tight of a grip her desperate fingers have.

 

So, she immerses herself in her work and doesn’t bother tracking him down; tells herself he’ll find her when— _if_ —he’s ready, and convinces herself that she’s content with that.

 

 

 

 

 

She shouldn’t be as startled as she is when she finds him outside her door in the early hours of the new year. She’d nearly opted to stay in, but had allowed Foggy to drag her out for a drink instead, ready to escape all the noise, kick off her heels and maybe do a little research for her next article by the time she arrives home.

 

She should recognize him, if only by the black clothing, before he turns, hearing her approach by the click of her heels, but the way her fingers reach into the bag slung over her shoulder for the firearm has become second-nature. She freezes mid-movement at the voice that says her name.

 

His hands are jammed inside his pockets, and her mind wanders briefly enough to wonder if he has a gun on him. “Gonna take the shot?”

 

His tone is light and _teasing_ and there’s warmth in his eyes as they take her in. She’s thankful it’s so cold out that her nose is practically numb, so that she can pretend the tiny shiver that wracks down her spine is from the chill of the air and not how she can almost feel that warmth seep into her bones.

 

She wonders how long he’s been waiting outside her doorstep.

 

She breaks their staring contest only to dig around for her keys. His proximity when she unlocks her door doesn’t intimidate her, not even a little bit, but she’s hyperaware of him cataloguing her every move and the intensity of it causes her fingers to tremble the slightest bit.

 

She has a million questions swirling around in her head, but bites her tongue before one can slip out, inviting him in wordlessly.

 

_Why didn’t you let me know you were okay?_

She’s about to break the silence by making some joke about this feeling awfully familiar and ask if he wants a beer when he clears his throat, not speaking until she drags her gaze back up to meet his. “Got into any trouble lately?”

 

Her tongue pokes the inside of her cheek as she breathes out a chuckle, whatever resentment she’d held for him waiting so long to make a reappearance flooding out of her as she tucks an errant strand of hair behind her ear. “Always. You?”

 

She lets her eyes roam over his features, how his hair and beard are growing out again, and wants to breach the small distance between them and pull him into a hug. She doesn’t, slipping her coat and heels off instead.

 

“Been layin’ low, actually,” he answers after a few beats, his voice so close.

 

She turns to find herself wrapped in his arms, a stunned gasp escaping her but not thinking twice as she returns the embrace. His arms are firm but don’t squeeze too tight as they sway in place slowly, breathing each other in, and somewhere between the moment she feels a kiss pressed to her temple and when she rests her head on his shoulder, she recognizes that they crossed that line she’d been so scared of a while ago.

 

She can’t place the exact moment. Maybe it was the first time he stepped foot here, when she’d hugged him on a whim. Maybe it was long before.

 

Maybe it had been the night she’d told him she wanted an after for him. _For me_ , she’d choked back that night. It’d been stuck in her throat, where she’d wanted it to stay, even after he’d kissed her cheek and walked away as she’d wiped the tears gathered under her eyes. _I want an after for me, too_. “Happy New Year,” she whispers, feeling a bit silly but not willing to pull away just yet.

 

“Happy New Year,” he murmurs back, and she feels his lips against her neck curve into a smile.

 

 

 

 

 _I want an after for us_ , she’d thought that night, hadn’t dared cross that line by voicing it aloud.

 

But she’s starting to think he does, too.


End file.
